


Fool for the Stars

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Returning Home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-12 20:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18018185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: Noctis had never seen Galahd before, but once he's there, it feels like home.





	1. Chapter 1

The towns and cities of Galahd were uniform, Niflheim constructions. When they approached on the ferry, the shining city of Nyx’s home island— the beacon that guided them across the rough ocean waves— stood out in an orderly and artificial manner against the stubborn wilderness around it. The port was not the chaotic mess of the Insomnian Harbours, the markets that were a staple to any oceanside city laid out in an orderly, muted fashion. Noctis marveled at the quiet of it, having left the shouts and aggressive sales of the Lucian port markets just hours before. But it was a reflection of the loosening hands that had rebuilt the city. The city laid out in a grid that Noctis had studied in various classes and through many tutors who touted the civil engineering of the Nifs as a marvel for the modern age. If one was to overlook the razing of the old cities that tended to happen first. 

Noctis had expected the same organic, tangled mess of streets as the Lucian cities. Textbooks and photos and the re-tellings of stories over cheap, spicy skewers and bitter beers had built up a very different image in his mind of the islands. 

“It wasn’t always so shiny, little star.”

“No, I wouldn’t think so.”

Nyx smiled at him. He hid the nervous worrying of his lip behind the busy work of checking their bags and shouldering packs. He had insisted on bringing more gifts than the ones Noctis had selected (and paid for); trinkets and toys and keepsakes tucked in with clean clothes for their stay. Little gifts to be presented like peace offerings— little slivers of offered glimpses into the Lucian city they had trabelled from. Noctis shouldered his own bag as Nyx led the way— just as lost in the strange, shining city as he was. He could at least admit that the Nifs might have the right idea with their fondness for maps at nearly every major intersection. Even if more than half the streets and plazas were named for people Noctis knew for a fact wanted him dead. 

“When I was a kid,” Nyx said, once he had given up on trying to navigate the city and called for a ride instead. The car took them out through the grid of the streets and avenues, away from the shining bustle of the modern core— a rival to Insomnia’s own central cluster of administration and government, raised high above the charmless Nif uniformity. Nyx indicated the streets and the buildings as they passed them, a gesture towards the steady shift from metropolitan hub to spaced out residential blocks; “this was all a market— shops and things. More colourful too.”

Noctis recalled the colours and banners of the districts of Insomnia the Galahdians had claimed as their own. He knew the wide streets of Insomnia could barely contain the tumble of Galahdian culture from spilling out of doorways, the clutter and noise of the exuberant culture a loud clash against the decorum of Lucian sensibilities. It seemed odd to see a city in the homeland of that budding familiarity he had with Nyx’s heritage so quiet and clean and caged. “I can imagine.”

He didn’t want to ask what had happened, as Nyx pointed out the few and far between familiar landmarks. Instead, he watched the chrome and glass of the city vanish into the encroaching green of Galahdian forests and fields. Nifs razed cities, and rebuilt civilisations in their own image; farms were left untouched. The wilds of Galahd were just as Noctis expected to see them— distant forests of broad leaves and tall grasses, all shadows and dim, distant wonder. The green leaps in where the sterile city ended, and there was already budding vine and ivy and clawing, creeping forest trying to reclaim the Nif designed suburbs. 

Ancient stone walls— or at least what appeared ancient in passing— still lined the roads. Uniform homes, each built identical to its neighbours stood clustered together around crescents and cul-de-sacs, the Nif obsession with clear boundaries losing the battle with the Galahdian tradition to honour all things in their culture. The crumbling walls served as fences for the roadway, marked up in neat, Nif printed letters for each neighbourhood name. They past several before the driver turned down a street with a floral name and houses that all carried fresh, colourful coats of paint— a distinction in the sea of bland, bleached siding and stone of the other homes closer to the city. 

Hestia Ulric was outside to greet them when the car pulled into the crescent. 

The home was distinct compared to the others— uniform siding replaced by wooden slats and rustic stone. It’s shape mirrored the others, still, but the curtains visible in the wide, tall windows were the proud Ulric purples Noctis had seen fluttering off Nyx’s Glaive uniform. The forest seemed to spread out from behind the home, any sense of manicured lawn or imposed control lost beneath the fierce individuality Noctis was not surprised by. 

Flowers lined the home in neat rows, and clover spread from the lawn through to the neighbours’, the curl and coil of the wild a seeping imposition against the Niflheim control. To Noctis’ first, uninformed glance, the Ulric home was the epicentre of every persistent, immortal wild idea he had about Galahd. And the woman who smiled from the little iron gate, a hand gripping the edge of the metal as she watched the car’s approach and slow stop like a hawk. 

He wondered, as he gathered the bags, how the Empire had managed to maintain any sort of stranglehold on the island when the Ulric home existed. 

She stood at the gate, Nyx’s dark hair and ice eyes shining at them as her smile lit up the early afternoon around them, barely a thread of grey or silver to mar the familiar deep brown Noctis knew well. Nyx was out of the car like a shot, and Noctis bit back his smile as he paid the driver and sent him on his way. When he looked back, Nyx had the petite woman— a deceptive appearance, Noctis was sure— caught up in a hug. 

“Ma!”

That single, beloved name had set off the whirlwind around them. 

Noctis was swept up with it along the way, caught up in hugs and exclamations; he stammered his way through the first introductions, all formal training and expectations dashed against the flurry of motherly doting that he had been warned of, but not prepared for. He remembered Nyx taking the bags from him, and sudden pockets of silence where tasks were decided— drinks, snacks, setting things to a room— where Noctis floated without an anchor for the briefest moment. Until the waves crashed back around him, a warm mug pressed into his hands, a worn sofa presented to him before Nyx pulled him down to it, any lull in the conversation and greetings and chatter meant to let the Ulric reunion catch its breath while he continued to gasp at it. 

Pleasant conversation bubbled around him— comments on the trip, the ferry, the timing, the first impressions.

He was introduced all at once to the little living room— the dried plants and collection of pictures salvaged from whatever life existed before the Nifs came. The worn furniture— Hestia, as she insisted he call her somewhere along the line between door and dinner table— the template for Nyx’s own thrift. There was comfort, and well loved pieces, bare patches on walls between singed photos protected in frames and shelves of planters. Noctis had only even known the cold, impartial stone of the Citadel with its tomblike halls and cavernous rooms meant to impress rather than house. He was used to his apartment, with its pale walls and lived-in comfort. He was used to the view of the city, stretched out around him, below him, and the shimmer of distant magic around him. 

But the little home, cut out from the Nif uniformity in a few short years of truce and peace, felt like a welcoming haven already reclaimed from the Imperial occupation. 

It wasn’t until they had crashed into the wide guest bed— linens smelling of fresh detergent and dust— that Noctis could let it sink in. The aftertaste of dinner lingered— heavy, succulent garula roast, with the barest hint of citrus in some glaze he was certain was explained to him amid the chatter and talk and warmth— and the noise of small talk and familial laughter and teasing echoed in his ears. He remembered vague commentary, confirmations, pleasantries exchanged over the meal; smiles and hugs and long promises to talk more in the morning, when they were all more awake. The afternoon had barely a moment of silence shared between them all, and Noctis could still feel the air around him humming with the promise of Ulric enthusiasm. 

“You okay, kitten?” 

Nyx lay in the bed with him, propped up on pillows as they admired the tall, windows that took up most of the angled wall across from them. Noctis had seen the design quirk in other homes passed— the slanted wall, the tall, bright windows— but the Ulric home had no neighbours on that side of their meagre property. There was privacy in the tall hedges and plants kept to that side of the house, green vines barely inching towards the glass as they started their climb along the siding and brush. And from the angle, Noctis could see the night sky above the drapes tied to give them sunlight and moonlight in the small guestroom. 

“I’m fine, hero.”

It was easier with the two of them. 

It was quieter with the two of them. 

With Nyx smiling as he picked out constellations beyond the window, mostly blocked by the creeping, sickly lights of the not-too-distant city on the coast. His voice low and hushed, as if he was going to wake the household— his mother— with his stories of the stars on the distant mountains and nights in the dark forests. Arms around Noctis to tangle them together, eased against the bed as he picked out the stars and Noctis accused him of making up stories about them.

“How would you even know about those? You can barely see them.”

“I know my constellations,” Nyx smiled and took his chance; he twisted in the bed until he was over Noctis, grinning down at the prince smiling back up at him. Daring him with the smallest edge of his lips, the quirk of his features, a challenge in his eyes. It was the first real kiss on Galahdian soil, and Noctis would swear it was still wild; “I’m a fool for my stars.”


	2. Chapter 2

Noctis woke to a cold bed. He woke to the strange birdsong outside the great, angled windows, and the flutter of small shadows moving across the light. He woke to rumpled blankets and sheets and the lingering scent of his lover pressed close in the pillows. It took a moment to remember the day before— to crash back into the shore of Galahdian welcomes and brief tours of small homes settled in pieces of reclaimed island. As the memories surfaced— warm meals still lingering, sea salted air still in his lungs, enthusiastic greeting and chatter and the wondrous noise of reunion— Noctis braced himself for the next volley. He wanted to stay as he was, in the peace and stillness of the guest room, with the morning tinted green from the wilds beyond the windows. 

But the bed was still cold, and that was enough of a reason for him to wake. 

He washed and dressed, and hair still dripping, he wandered his way through the narrow hall to the bright kitchen. He trailed after the scent of thick, garula bacon and the noise of sizzle on the stove. He let his tired eyes trace over the myriad of a mother’s pictures that lined the walls, awards and graduations, children at different ages and in different events. He paused at one, where a young Nyx beamed out from years past, an arm around a younger Libertus, as they stood on the steps of a building. Fire had singed the edges of the photo, and cinders burnt black specks across the details, but Noctis could make out the sign pinned above the door and smiled as he remembered the bar from stories Nyx had told him. 

“Come and help, little star.”

Nyx stood at the oven— the latest in Nif technology, he was sure— with the sleeves of his light sweater rolled up and his hair tied back away from his face. The wide windows of the uniform design were opened to the chill morning air, and the fresh green of early spring and the distant salt of the sea wafted in on the breeze, coiled with the comforts of the home. He smiled as he saw Noctis in the hallway, half an eye on the pan of sizzling, spiced bacon as he selected a new tool from the colourful vase on the counter— filled with a bouquet of wooden spoons of varying sizes and decorations, and spatulas coloured by years of spices and sauces. 

Noctis settled at the little island to watch, rather than help. Perched with his elbows on the counter to smile as Nyx moved with ease.

The home was more peaceful than he expected. Nyx was more peaceful than he had expected, for all the fretting and worry and planning that had gone into this trip.

“I’m terrible in the kitchen.”

“No, you’re untrained,” Nyx grinned and twirled his selected spoon as he searched the cupboard for his mother’s spices. No jar was labelled, the bottles and containers arranged in neat rows. There was a pattern, Noctis was sure, to the way the jars were arranged— to the colours and textures, to the immediate sense of smell when one was disturbed for selection. There were plants, crisp and dried hanging from hooks alongside long nets of garlic. And Nyx made a selection on sight and memory and trust in his mother’s stores. “There’s a difference.”

“I’m good just watching.”

“Then should I put on a show?”

“Like saying no would stop you, hero.”

The grin that met him was more than enough of an answer, and Nyx worked the selected cinnamon and nutmeg, dashes and sprinkles of unmeasured flavour, into what Noctis assumed was soon to be pancakes. Nyx cradled the bowl in one arm, the batter tilted to the spilling point with his careless angle, but no drop wasted as he folded the flavours in. As he whipped the mix to a creamy concoction, measured by colour and texture, until the smoothness of the batter looked perfect. 

Once heated, the mixture filled the small kitchen with a promised warmth. With memories of other lazy mornings and quiet days Nyx had only told him about. 

Noctis knew from experience that the ease of Nyx’s movement was hard earned. He knew that the man worked best in small spaces— that the open, sterile kitchen Ignis kept was intimidating compared to the chaos of his own home deep in the city, or the quiet peace of this Galahdian refuge. And had they been back home, nestled deep in their own world and buried beneath the layers of the Lucian capital, Noctis would have stood at Nyx’s side to distract him. There would have been soft kisses and smiles shared as the bacon crisped a little too much, or the pancakes singed at the edges. He would have tangled his hand in Nyx’s hair, and laughed at the indignant look that always earned him while they were in the kitchen.

“Would you like a coffee, dear?” Hestia Ulric said softly, bringing Noctis back from the display of Nyx at ease and in his element away from the battlefield. 

He floundered for a moment, not sure if the drink had already been started, or if he had the time to refuse. Nyx took pity on him; “Juice, Ma. Coffee will put him right back to sleep some mornings.”

There was a moment of relief between them, as Hestia brightened and bustled her way around her son, who was still testing the pancakes with little subtle jerks to the pan. She set down two jars of juice in front of Noctis with a grin; “You take what you want, dear, I only keep the coffee for when Selena is home.”

Noctis eased into the comfort of the Ulric kitchen— the soft edges of Nyx grinning as he managed the perfect flip of the pan, the pancake sliding off onto a warming plate only to be replaced with another. His mother moved around him as if he was a fixture— the bacon dabbed with paper towel and set aside to drip excess grease into a tray, the selection of juice poured and served while they waited. Across the breakfast table between them, syrup and icing sugar was passed with stories of Nyx’s culinary exploits, just as daring and wild as his adventures on a battlefield or training yard. 

“You’ll keep Ma company, right?” Nyx asked once Noctis had a mouthful of breakfast to distract him. 

“Of course he will,” Hestia smiled, while Noctis blinked owlishly; “You don’t worry about that.”

Noctis managed to gather himself enough to ask; “What are you doing then?”

“An errand, little star.”

“An errand?”

“Nothing important. Back before dinner.” 

Noctis nodded, and prepared for a day alone with Nyx Ulric’s mother. There was talk of the markets and sights— the docks and the remnants of Niflheim’s governing structure in the form of museums of Galahdian culture stolen and sterilised and set behind glass for viewing like curiosities. There was a suggestion that Noctis could help in the garden, as meagre as it was in the early spring on the island, and plans for walks along the edges of the wilds. 

When he left for his errand, Nyx smiled and kissed Noctis. 

The day was a distraction as promised. Noctis smiled over the treasure trove of pictures and stories; grinning as Hestia pulled out albums and cards, the letters Nyx had sent from Insomnia, the pictures and post cards that they had both been surprised made it through the Niflheim controls. There were stories— told over afternoon tea and as they walked, Noctis dutifully holding bags and baskets as they wandered through the little farmer’s market settled at the end of a long dirt lane. Hestia told him about Nyx’s bar, and his youth, of his records climbing the distant mountains and the trouble in the Canyon he thought he hid from her (Libertus could always be bribed with baked goods, he learnt), while the sun blazed above them and the distant ocean spread to the horizon at the end of the rolling hills of uniform houses. And in turn he told her about Insomnia, and Lucis, and the way Nyx was admired in a roundabout way. 

He told her of the way his son was a hero in his knightly order. Of his valour and the dangers and accomplishments he thought he kept quiet from Noctis (Crowe, Hestia learnt, could be bribed to tales of daring with the right drinks). He smiled fondly as she asked about first dates and living arrangements, and he responded with stories of bright festivals cut into the foundation of stern Lucian appearances. Of royal events and visits, broken by laughter stifled in the hallowed Citadel halls as they slipped away. Of nights spent out in the maze of streets, where Nyx led him down among the people he was born to protect and govern, showing him the sight the Citadel preferred to reduce to statistics and numbers. Of Nyx’s arm around him as they wandered easily in the anonymity the city expanse gave them. 

It was approaching dinner by the time Noctis started to worry. Hestia had him stirring a pot of sauce as she worked, reassuring him with small pats to his arm and little hums of approval as she viewed his work. 

“He’ll be home soon,” she assured him, with a glance at the clock and a mother’s soft tut. “Never knew my son to miss a meal without good cause.”

“I know.”

Noctis had seen Nyx keep his promises to return time and time again. But not always as he intended to. 

There were reminders that they were in Niflheim territory— that the Empire had just left, that there were still bases withdrawing and soldiers in the cities. He thought of Nyx, out where he would be recognised, where he could be stopped or taken, no matter how tenuous the peace treaty was. Where one Nif, annoyed by peace and loss of Imperial territory, might act against the unarmed hero of the Lucian Kingsglaive.

When the door opened, Noctis managed to catch himself from reaching into the Armiger. 

“Sorry, took longer than I though,” Nyx called from the front room. 

It was a touch from Hestia that sent Noctis out to greet Nyx. But it was the sight of Nyx that stopped him in his tracks. 

“What the hell happened?”

Nyx offered up a sheepish smile, and ran a hand across his now-short hair.


	3. Chapter 3

“Do you think he’ll mind?”

The first morning back in Galahd, and Nyx had realised that he needed his mother’s advice. They sat together at the dining room table— as the morning started to glow beyond the little haven of the household, steaming tea between them, warming hands and largely ignored as Nyx worried his lip. He had been awake first, satisfied with the few hours managed in a strange bed in a (mostly) familiar home. He had left Noctis to sleep beneath the angled window and the stars beyond, at peace curled beneath the colourful quilt and soft blankets Nyx was certain his mother had always had for the guest rooms. 

He had wandered the small home as quietly as he could manage, taking in the old pictures and awards on proud display. This was not the house he had grown up in. It was not the house that had seen a thousand childish fights and tantrums between siblings and under the stern eyes of their father. It was not the house he remembered as his own home— cozy and quiet, nestled closer to the wilds and the mountains, with a few generations of Ulric chaos breathed into the walls. 

But it was his mother’s house. And it still carried a sense of home. 

His mother had been the one to make the tea and usher him to a seat at the table. To smile and kiss his cheek, pulling him down to her with admonishment for being so tall. 

And now she sat, with a mother’s patience, as he told her his real intention for visiting Galahd. 

“I’m sure he won’t,” she answered; “but does he know what it means.”

“I don’t… May—” Nyx paused as the certainty set in. “No. He doesn’t.”

“I’m not telling him, Nyxie.” Hestia lifted her tea with a smile, with the same conspiratorial smile that had encouraged more than one daring, youthful adventure. “I’ll keep your secret.”

Now, hours later, it was done.

Hours later, he was able to see Noctis’ surprise and shock and confusion all at once as he stepped through the door.

He ran a hand across the fuzzy remnants of his hair, and smiled to Noctis. He had forgotten how everything had to be a ritual in Galahd. How every tradition and intention had to be observed. He had almost missed the aloof Lucian sensibilities and efficiency. He had almost missed the way a Lucian barber wouldn’t have made him bundle up the beads and cord as he had, with a lecture to remember his history and past, even as he cut it from him. 

Noctis’ reaction was worth it, in the end.

He leaned down enough for a kiss, to tease a smile as Noctis’ curious hands followed through the much shorter hair left. “You’re fluffy, Nyx.”

“Not the reaction I was hoping for, little star.”

“What were you hoping for?”

“Dashing? Handsome? A gift from the Astrals?”

“I liked the braids.”

“The idea, kitten, is that the braids are a show of your memories and life” Nyx slipped his hands to Noctis’ waist, pressed their foreheads together to gather his thoughts, his plans. To steel himself from what he thought was the inevitable; “and I wanted a fresh start with you. Here, now.”

“What?”

“You and me, Noctis. We have a lifetime for some new memories.”

Noctis’ smile was worth the long wait and forced contemplation. It was worth the delicate, careful cuts to free breads and cords before they were bundled up and tucked away. Worth the rough treatment afterwards— the rough turns and harsh directions, pulled and prodded as the whole thing was done. As he suffered through the rituals and lectures and ‘are you sure’s that came with every little snip and more dramatic cut. 

And Noctis could only smile; “You think I’m going to leave you because you cut your hair?”

“Never crossed my mind.”

It wasn’t until later, when they were settled together on the guest bed and beneath that long angled window, that Noctis realised the gesture for what it was. 

“So,” Noctis ran his hands through Nyx’s shorter hair, his lover reclined against him. He wondered at the new feeling of it; “new memories?”

Nyx grinned up at him. “Got the first bead and everything, little star.”

“You do realise you’ll have to propose the Lucian way too?”

Reaching up, Nyx caught Noctis’ hand and brought it to his lips with a kiss to the palm. “However you ask, kitten, I’ll accept.”

“You’d better, hero.”


End file.
